The Wide World Comforts Her

It was nearly a year ago that a good friend and I sat on a quilt in my backyard and marveled at how *calm* our both our intense children were as soon as we took them outside.
They drove each other to tears indoors, teasing, grabbing, bouncing quite literally off each other and my crayon marked walls, but as soon as they stepped outside, it was as if we had given the both behavioral meds!

Instantly calm, and happy to collect sticks together. We laughed the relieved laughter that only the parent of a "more" child can laugh...it was glorious!! It was like magic.

I shouldn't have been surprised.

Our girls have been lovers of the outdoors since they were infants. They never had any other choice, really! Barefoot Man took both of them for walks around the yard in the golden autumn air the first week they were born, Mirth in Oct and Lark in Sept. Lark had her first glimpse of our giant tulip tree and honeysuckles from daddy's cloth sling just a few hours after she'd suckled for the first time.

One of Mirth's favorite books is "When Sophie Gets Angry". It's about a little girl who has angry feelings exploding inside her like a volcano, and who finally feels peace when she runs into the forest and climbs a giant tree. Our favorite line is, "The wide world comforts her". That line is our favorite because it's so very true: it's hard to stay angry when the world around you is embracing you, dwarfing you, soothing you.

I'm currently reading a most excellent (if a bit rambling)book called "Last Child in the Woods", it's premise being that many children in our current society suffer from what he calls "nature deficit disorder". There are a great many thought provoking interviews in the book, as well as some really plausible theories about the connection between the apparent epidemic of ADHD and lack of unstructured outdoor play. It's a read that's well worth your time, and raises some really important questions about the effects of a sterilized childhood.



In addition to fleshing out the skeleton of some of my cherished beliefs, Last Child also brought back a flood of memories from my own girlhood. I realize that I was largely inspired, informed, nurtured and challenged by my own hand to hand experiences with nature. I'm made up of cotton plants and black eyed susans and bee stingers in my feet and grimy river dirt under my fingernails.

My favorite and most distinct memories are climbing the persimmon tree in our backyard, and squishing the rotten ones beneath my dusty keds. Of feeding baby birds with pairs of tweezers, watching my brother try and teach them to fly, and crying both happy and disappointed tears when ey finally did. Of squishing cool, plowed dirt between my little toes. Of tasting tiny green crab apples, of collecting nuts at my great grandma's house with mosquitoes buzzing my head, of crawling across the dirt to capture a blue tailed lizard (only to have it's tail come off when I grabbed it)

I remember rubbing brown dirt on my skinny arms and legs, and pretending to be friendly Pocahontas or brave Sacajawea. I remember flying out the door after piano lessons into the woods with my friends, brandishing stick-shaped pirate swords as we commandeered the musty old rotting tree house in the woods. I remember skimming my fingers over the fish smelling water outside my grandparent's boat, and the sting of my hair as it whipped my face in the wind. I remember making tepees out of big branches and moss and clumps of grass with my brother in the woods at my grandfather's cattle farm. I can still feel the rush of glee as I recall swinging on old vines over a small gully in my grandmother's back yard, and the flush of excitement that comes from escaping danger unscathed.


little Barefoot in a tree


I remember finding baby sharks in tidal pools and feeling an a deep connection to the restless, boundless sea as a teenager. Laying on my back and looking at the stars with my brother in our driveway, and dancing in the rain...something that brought me connection with my younger years and helped me not take myself too seriously. Of sneaking into the woods late in the night at summer camp with my good friend Lyn, and listening to the cicadas drone as we softly giggled under the watch of an enormous moonlit sky. Of feeling like we could conquer the world and dream our dreams out loud with no one around to make us feel self conscious.

Nature gave me a chance to process, to release, to try on new persona, to test myself, to teach myself "I can", to show me the world is bigger and more constant than my own emotions and thoughts. To quote my favorite girlhood heroine, it "soothed my crumpled spirits". It invited me to dream, and learn, and transport myself elsewhere.

Nate's childhood was perhaps even more closely connected to creation than even mine, and we share the ability to be almost instantly calmed and centered when we walk outdoors.

As an adult, I tend to thrive on order. I get a thrill from seeing all the laundry neatly stashed away, not feeling crumbs under my feet on the floor, and seeing my counters gleaming a cheery "hello" in the morning. (I am, admittedly, a little obsessive in my efforts sometimes. ) My family's life needs order and structure to run smoothly, and that's fine by me. I enjoy having everything in a reasonable state of organization. :oP

I also feel strongly urged let my daughters run wild a bit. Outdoors, unstructured, unfettered, uninhibited by rules about clothes or germs or climbing too high or messing anything up. While they might thrive on structure inside our home, their spirits and minds seem awakened when they get a chance to spend lots of time out in the wild, rambling, sensuous earth. They squish, they rip, they climb, they taste, they prod, they whoop with delight...and I'm trying my best to let them.



They need to feed their wild side more than they need educational shows or my calming techniques or nice, clean shoes. I need to remind myself daily to slap floppy hats on them, put on their old shoes and turn them loose. The world is their laboratory, their muse, their problem to solve, their challenge to conquer, their embrace.

The wide world comforts them. It comforts me, too. <3

We Are Here!!

My 3yo recently watched the "Horton Hears a Who" (and promptly fell in love with it). I spent the the last 60min of the film standing aghast as I watched the Mayor of Whooville alloted only 10 seconds of his day to each of his 96 daughters who longed for his attention, while devoting great energy to his one disinterested son who was fated to take over his job of mayor someday. Throwaway, dime-a-dozen girls, and a special, special boy. Of course this provoked me, both as a daughter and a mother.

I'm going to share someone else's words instead of mine...partially because he expressed nearly exactly what I wanted to say, and partially because one of my own bright female offspring is using my right shoulder blade to cut her last pointy, pearly tooth on. ;)

An essay by Peter Sagal of NPR:

I become annoyed with a current kid’s movie, on All Things Considered this evening. Transcript after the jump:

I don’t know what sins Dr. Seuss committed in his life to be doomed to have Jim Carrey star in movie adaptations of his books. But I came out of “Horton Hears a Who,” with my wife and my three excited and happy daughters, irritated by something even more annoying than Carrey’s tics. In a new subplot added by the filmmakers, the Mayor of Whoville has 96 daughters. He has one son. Guess who gets all his attention? Guess who saves the day? Go ahead, think about, I’ll wait.

No I won’t. What’s so irritating about this casual slap at daughters is the sense that the makers of the film didn’t really mean it. They seemed mostly interested in riffs on pop culture and jokes about violating bodily integrity. But what writers are told, you see, in Hollywood notes meetings, is that every character has to make a journey, towards something he needs and ultimately gets, and what they decided the Mayor of Whoville needswas a better relationship with his son. Here is a father with 96 daughters — 96 amazing, beautiful, unpredictable, mysterious, distinct, glorious human beings — but gosh, what in the world is he going to care about? I know, let’s give him a moody silent uninteresting offspring, but this one’s got a Y chromosome… that’ll be boffo box office!

Have the clowns who made this movie ever met a daughter? Have they dated one? If they did, did they meet the daughter’s father? Did they then ask that daughter’s father if there was anything more dramatic, interesting, arresting, and moving to him than his relationship with his daughter? Did they ask him if he might find that a close relationship with said daughter might be something he would care about? . What do they imagine that we do — sit around, and watch our daughters grow and change and suffer and fail and triumph — and idly wish for something more INTERESTING?

And there’s this — not only does the movie end with father and son embracing, while the 96 daughters are, I guess, playing in a well, somewhere, but the son earns his father’s love by saving the world. Boys get to save the world, and girls get to stand there and say, I knew you could do it. How did they know he could do it? Maybe because they watched every other movie ever made?

We got into the car outside the cinpeplex and I was quite in lather, let me tell you. How come one of the GIRLs didn’t get to save Whoville? I cried.

“Yeah!” Said my daughters.

“And while we’re at it, how come a girl doesn’t get to blow up the Death Star! Or send ET home? Or defeat Captain Hook! Or Destroy the Ring of Power!”

“That’s rotten!” cried my daughters.

“How come Trinity can’t be the One who defeats the Matrix!” I yelled.

“What are you talking about?” they said.

“You’ll find out later,” I said.”But here’s one: how come a girl doesn’t get to defeat Lord Voldemort!”

“Well, wait a minute, Papa,” they said. “None of us would want to mess with him.”

I took their point. But I still wanted to grab that fictional, silly Mayor of Whoville by his weirdly ruffled neck, and say, you see those 96 people over there? Those girls, those women, those daughters? You know what they’re saying to you, every minute of every day that you waste thinking about anything else?

They are shouting at you. They are shouting:

“We are here! We are here! We are here!”

Smarty Pants :)

Hey, Mirth, whacha drawing, baby?


"I'm drawing bones. You have them all around your body. Drawing bones is a SKILL. I have a drawing skill, see? Bones make high blood sugar. You can see the bones inside. They point to your body, all around, and they make high blood sugar. They're help us do things. See these round bones? They're called atereals. The round ones help the line ones stay together. We need them."

Oh! wow. Mommy's drawing a smiley face. *grin*

Sooo, Lark, who are you talking to on your phone?

demurely answered: "Somebody."

I love these stinkers.

Sleepy thoughts, pretty little duds

It's very quiet in our house, except for the hum of the heater, and dark, too. I'm up rocking a sick little one, so I thought I'd pass the time updating my neglected little corner of blogdom while I kiss my poor, warm baby on the top of her head.



I've been trying my hand at making some easy peasy toddler clothes for the girls this summer, and at the gentle nudging of friends, I might get up the nerve needed to try an actual pattern. These were fun to piece together, and I'm happy with how they turned out...summery and fun and clam-digger-ish. If you're an experienced seamstress, avert your eyes, or find something kind to say while ignoring my lack of skill. *giggle*

(Also, excuse the lounging menagerie of stuffed animals strewn all over the house...they are beloved friends who see quite a bit of play time these days. The favorites have been dubbed "Pillypoolah", "Moses", "RumTumTugger" and "Molly". Separating any of these from the rest of the pack results in hurt feelings in the quarantined party, you see, so we try to be all-inclusive, so as not to injure any animal's feelings ;) )

I cut apart some old size 4 wide legged capris, and straightened the legs out a bit, and used the pieces as a pattern for drawstring pants. I thought it would be a disaster, but they turned out very wear-able! I'll admit it: I was really, really pleased with myself. *grin* I remembered my first sad attempt at clothes making for a doll when I was 7 or so, and that dusty little part of myself was redeemed a bit after years of thinking I couldn't do it. :-P



There's something sweet and happy about watching your kiddos dance around in something you put together with your own hands. It's similar to feeding someone a good meal, or singing someone to sleep, or arranging flowers that you grew yourself.

Speaking of DIY...a friend recently sent me a kombucha tea scoby and some kefir grains. Wheeee! I've been blending the kefir with some berries and some xylitol, and wow, it's good.

I need to get to the store and pick up some more natural sweetener, but first, I need to get these bubs well. Not so much looking forward to several more days in the house. :-P

Three Year Olds and Schedules

My 3yo is a classic textbook high energy kiddo.

Since she turned 3, Barefoot and I have been running around after her non-stop. Lots of dumping, lots of messes, lots of smearing and stirring and mixing of things that shouldn't be smeared or stirred or mixed. :-P

I finally had an "aha!" moment one day when I walked into the kitchen and saw she'd poured an entire carton of rice milk into a half-empty jar of peanut butter, and was dutifully sprinkling the soggy mess with a bottle of oregano. I asked in exasperation (after muffling a big blue streak), "WHY would you DO that??" She answered proudly, "I'm sorry you're mad. I'm making a recipe just like YOU, mommy!! It's tasty!"

My anger melted as I watched her bravely wince and ladle to stuff into her little mouth, grunting in forced satisfaction.

Snorking down a secret giggle, I seriously sat her down and we had a talk about respecting things, how she wanted to do things for herself, and how we could do both at the same time.

The solution was that she would be allowed in the kitchen and could have access to the fridge, as long as she only took food from a special shelf designated for only Mirth. She wanted a box with dinosaurs with snacks in it on the shelf. I went out the next day and got supplies to make the box, which ended up being decorated with dragons and knights after a failed search for dino stickers. :-P

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In addition, that evening, I took a blow to my free-spirited side (as well as my adult-oriented nature) and made out a schedule for our weekdays. (A big "Thank You" to my friend Allison for prodding me in that direction ;-) )

So far, it's working out well, and I'm staying a few steps ahead of her fairly easily! Whoot!! :oD

I'm trying to plan out "outside" time (at least 2 hours of it) every day, along with a general theme for the week that goes along with the season of the year. This week, it's harvest time and apples. :-)

Our schedule is completely subject to Mirth and Lark's natural rhythms, more a general order of planned things rather than a rigid itinerary. A few things, like lunch and naptime are non-negotiable and sacred. No trips or projects or stimulating things during sleepy time of day, lol, or disaster will surely follow.

(Soapbox of the Day: I, btw, completely take issue with the notion that parents who attribute "bad" behavior to sleepiness or hunger or illness are simply making excuses for sinfulness, and that recognizing rough times of the day will set them up to be "wild" adults. I don't know anyone who acts nicely when overly-tired. :-P I agree that parents should teach children self-control for times when they feel badly...I just believe that doing so means teaching them to take good care of themselves and getting the needs for sleep and food met ASAP, if possible! Jesus slept when he was sleepy and ate when He was hungry- I can't expect more than that from my kids! ;-) )

I found a lot of fun Waldorf-inspired hands on activities and nature themed verses to go along with our work and play. I love the playful teaching and structure it adds...

So far, so good! She's like a wild rose with a trellis to climb now, and we're all pleased with the result: the family's things are treated with respect, and so is she! :-D

The labyrinth

I really enjoyed this article that a friend shared with me. If you don't have time to read it, I'll give a short synopsis.

The author talks about how women who experience intense or fast births can experience a shock-like state after the birth train screeches to a halt. After sky high emotions and physical sensation (and extreme attention from her caregiver), suddenly labor ends. The new mother can often feel left in the lurch and forgotten at the abrupt end of labor, even to the point of going into a state of shock. According to the article, the people around the mother can help guide her out of the maze intact by helping her process her birth and by continuing to care for her mind and spirit in a generous way.I really appreciated what the article had to say, and it was good food for thought while reflecting on my own birth experiences.

My first birth was really painful, then really medicated at 7cm. I remember an odd, unfinished feeling after the epidural, and the pushing phase was hard work and gradual. Everything was a haze, and my clearest memories are holding my baby and her being brought again from the nursery.

My second birth was fast. My labor was peaceful, at home and very intense at the end. I went into labor with Lark in the midmorning, and was delivered by that afternoon. The time between the urge to push and her being on my chest was so short, and the birth were so intense. I felt so shocked and surprised and happy and relieved at the same time. And if my immediate care from my midwife, doula and family had been any less than nurturing, I can't imagine how empty and lost I would have felt.

Fortunately, this is what happened: I was dried off and wrapped in a warm blanket, and helped from the pool to my bed. My baby was glued to my breast, nursing like the calm, methodical little one that she is. Dh was on the bed beside us, beaming and telling me that he'd caught our baby, and my doula was spooning good food and drink into me. My midwife helped into a warm tub filled with good smelling herbs, and my baby came along with me. My mom and dad arrived with my excited firstborn, and brought me a favorite meal. I was allowed to sleep a long sleep.

Afterwards, my midwife warned me to not go downstairs too early, and to expect an emotional low if I tried to return to "normal" life too soon. If I tried to act normal, it would tell others I felt "normal" prematurely. How right she was! She encouraged me to revel in the afterglow of birth, and to treat my body and emotions with kid gloves for a while. She was telling me how to walk through the labyrinth of the birth experience.

When we enter labor, to cope with the strong emotions and sensations of birth, we tend to go "somewhere else" in our minds. Thoughts, emotions, fears, joys that are normally deep in our hearts come bubbling to the surface as it feels we are cheating death to embrace life fully. Our minds are tested as we relax our bodies and embrace each new contraction as it furthers our baby towards birth. It's an intensely holistic experience, calling body, mind, spirit and emotion to work together full force.

If a woman is in the care of people who realize the importance of post partum support (and if we ourselves are indeed aware of the need to surround ourselves with such individuals), then at the end of the birth she will be taken by the hand and guided and nurturing and recognized as vulnerable. When a fast labor screeches to a halt, those around her will be there to validate her feelings, help her process and sooth her pounding hearts and racing emotions.

If a woman is surrounded only by people who are concerned only about making sure she's breathing and physically intact, she is more likely to feel shocked, abandoned and numb after birth, and possibly duped by all the attention she received while laboring. Especially if the only the baby is the main focus, and not the mother-baby relationship, the mother is likely to feel disconnected and strangely empty.

Nurturing the mother and her relationship is soooo important for their next 18 or so years! Feeding mama, bringing her water, teaching her how to nurse, praising her birth effort, helping her mentally process the birth, carefully gaging her emotional needs, making sure she sleeps, delighting in her motherhood are such precious gifts that women NEED. They need these more than flowers and balloons (although these are super-nice too ). Doing this tells the mother "You're loved, you're worth loving, and you're going to be a really supported mom. You can really do this!"

Not only does it take a village to raise a child, it takes a community to birth a mother. I absolutely love the imagery of helping to guide the woman through the maze that is birth and recovery back to participating in daily life. I cannot think of a greater gift to give a child than a loved,nurtured mother.

Why, yes! She is rather lively, isn't she?

Our eldest has been special since day one. At 2.5, he's a friendly, sensitive, fiery little diamond who embraces life with passion, vim and vigor. I embrace each day with a dose of caffeine and a heartfelt "HELP!" shot up to heaven.

She's a smart little cookie. She likes to be understood. She'll repeat whatever she's saying until she feels you've fully experienced the heartfelt emotion behind her thought. She needs lot of verbal feedback and physical contact. Her mind and body stay in motion long after she starts rubbing her eyes and feeling cranky. She has a really tough time letting go of a day, especially if she's been learning something new.

She climbs, stacks, squeals, runs, experiments, talks, demands, shrieks, feels deeply, eats, swings, dumps, pours, splashes, scrutinizes, hugs, badgers and runs. All day long, her little body lives in perpetual state of motion and intensity.

She's very, very much like me.

I cringe sometimes when I'm out. Don't get me wrong, I burst with joy and pride over my sweet, energetic little one. But sometimes, as I run and scoop my bolting giggler (or screamer) into my arms in a grocery store, I can feel "The Look" burning into the back of my skull.

The Look says, "If that were my kid" or "You *know* what would fix that..." or "If you don't teach her who's boss now..." Sometimes the owner of "The Look" will even say those words out loud. And I feel tempted to blush, make excuses, and become angry with my little one out of intense social embarrassment.

Then, it starts. On the way out to the car, with my toddler yowling for a rice cake, doubt creeps in. Maybe that sour old man or the snarky college student or the mother with the perfect, docile child was right. Maybe I'm a lousy mom. Maybe I should just be meaner. Maybe I need to go home and practice "The Look". Maybe....

The problem with all these maybes is that they're against my better judgment. *I* know my daughter. I know what she needs. I know how she's feeling, what kind of week she's had, that she's itchy/tired/thirsty/missing daddy/adjusting to a new sibling. No one else knows that.

I know that a good, harsh threat or a "pop on the leg" will be enough to turn a bad day into a REALLY bad day for her. I know this trip to the store needs to be shorter, and that she *needs* the rice cake she's been asking for incessantly. She doesn't need a good spanking. She needs a few good laps around the back yard, a snack and a good rocking session.

So I start the realistic self-talk. Yes, it is important to consider others, and so if my spirited child is actually damaging something/someone, or making life unpleasant for those around her, I will see that she respects those boundaries and redirect her (or simply remove her from the situation).

But if my daughter is simply singing "Twinkle Little Star" at the top of her voice in the grocery, or running in the halls of the church, or having a two year old explosion at the park over some firm boundary she doesn't like...tough cookies. That's who she is, and she is, in fact, two. If someone doesn't care for children doing childish things, perhaps they should consider re evaluating the way they participate in humanity. Or becoming a hermit.